The Girl in the Ice

by Lotte Hammer

  He was interrupted.

  “And the other?”

  “I have no idea. But he put the mask back in the safe deposit box, so something has not gone as planned.”

  The Countess, on the verge of tears, asked Simonsen, “How long will it be before we have an answer?”

  “Not until tonight, they’ll call me.”

  Madsen asked, “Answer to what?”

  “DNA test, to see which of them the lipstick was used on.”

  The Countess was now crying openly, but at the same time was sufficiently composed to think about others too.

  “We won’t tell Arne or their families either. Not until we have an answer.”

  The psychologist asked, sniffling, “How long can you survive without food and water, if we assume that one woman is still alive?”

  The Countess answered him, her eyes blinded by tears.

  “Food is no problem, it’s the lack of fluid that is deadly. She’s young, that’s good; the weather is warm, that’s bad. Five to six days, then it starts to get critical. Less if you are sick or in poor condition. A lot also depends on will.”

  Suddenly she felt as if her own words were alien and irrelevant. She happened to think then of the clairvoyant’s four loathsome lines of verse, which now filled her mind and blocked out any normal thought process.

  Simonsen noticed her expression.

  “Pull yourself together, Countess. You have work to do.”

  She nodded while she fought back her tears. Simonsen observed her expressionlessly. Troulsen’s eyes were shiny too, and his hands were shaking. He said in a cracked voice, “I think I know what may have happened. Pauline has probably taken her contact lenses off and swallowed them, as soon as she got the chance. But now you can just as well bring him in, Simon, because he will never—”

  Simonsen shouted so that it echoed.

  “No, he’s not coming in! And you, Ernesto, tell everyone who asks that you are certain he will return to his hiding place. I don’t care what psycho-babble you package it in, just do as I ask. I do not want him arrested now. Is that understood?”

  They understood him.

  At that moment Pedersen slipped in the door and placed himself without a word at the back of the room. The Countess asked him a question, but received only monosyllabic words in response. Troulsen tried too. He did not answer at all. They let him be, he was doing no harm. Shortly after that they got more news about Falkenborg. He was staying at the Hotel Grand in Herlev, a small hotel not far from the centre, where he had checked in three days ago.

  Simonsen instructed the Countess.

  “The head of DSIS is on his way, and you will be the one who liaises with him. I assume that he has some electronic gadgetry so we can follow Falkenborg’s movements on a screen. Get the big meeting room set up as a control room. I will be back in a couple of hours at most, but I’m turning off my cell phone so you can’t get in touch with me meanwhile.”

  “What do you mean by control room?”

  “I don’t know, it’s just an expression. But we should be able to follow his movements on the big screen. And get the staff restaurant to provide water and sandwiches . . . Damn it, do I have to arrange every single detail myself?”

  “No, I understand. Control room is an excellent designation. Just get going.”

  Troulsen asked in amazement, “Where in the world are you off to? What is more important than this?”

  The Countess had herself fully under control. She cut him off brutally.

  “Mind your own business, Poul. And trust that Simon is capable of minding his.”

  Troulsen backed out. He had never heard the Countess talk that way before.

  CHAPTER 56

  Marcus Kolding and Konrad Simonsen met in Hareskoven, by coincidence less than three kilometres from where Pauline Berg sat alone in the bunker, fighting for her life. They left their cars and walked side by side through the forest in the pleasant sunny weather. Simonsen started by thanking the man for his assistance in identifying the Finnish girl, Elizabeth Juutilainen, and received an indifferent shrug in response. Their subsequent conversation was barbaric, primitive, but also rewarding for both of them. Life for one, death for the other —the comment by the head of DSIS to Simonsen after the meeting at the Ministry of Justice was about to become bloody reality. Marcus Kolding considered the homicide chief’s proposal for a long time before he summarised in a neutral tone.

  “I kidnap and torture your mass murderer, until he comes out with where he has hidden the women. In return you tell me the name of the informer you say I have in my organisation.”

  “Yes, that’s the deal.”

  “What about the psychopath . . . What’s his name again, I’ve forgotten it?”

  “Andreas Falkenborg.”

  “Do you want him back alive?”

  They walked a dozen steps before it occurred to Kolding that he would not get an answer. Then he said in a business-like way, “Okay, I understand.”

  The only controversy between the two men was about when Kolding would get his information. Simonsen held firmly to his proposal.

  “When you get him to talk—not before.”

  “How do I know that you won’t cheat me? Although that would be very stupid of you, obviously.”

  “You can’t know that, and stop threatening me. You have to trust that you’ll get what I’ve promised you.”

  “Or that these aren’t false accusations against one of my employees that you have fabricated to suit your agenda?”

  “They will be in a form which you can judge for yourself.”

  “An audio recording?”

  “You’ll have to see.”

  Doctor Cold confirmed the horse trade by standing still and extending his hand. Simonsen took it with displeasure. They agreed on the practical details and soon they were back at the cars, where neither of them felt compelled to shake hands again. Simonsen left first; his interlocutor sat in his car and waited a few minutes, while in the meantime he rubbed his large snout with characteristic rotary movements.

  CHAPTER 57

  Pauline Berg was alone in the bunker. Andreas Falkenborg had killed Jeanette Hvidt before her eyes and buried the body in the concrete floor of the bunker. But her brain refused to process what she had seen. Gradually as she slipped into a state of exhaustion and dehydration, she felt certain that Jeanette was still sitting by her side. She patiently instructed her fellow prisoner.

  “Try chewing on your gag. Many times but carefully, without hurrying. Then finally you can force it out with your tongue. You mustn’t give up, do you understand?”

  She had a hard time making out the reply.

  “Remember, you’re going to be a doctor. You will be a good doctor.”

  Finally she sensed how Jeanette’s mouth slowly worked the gag, just as she herself had done it. The sound calmed her until another sound blended in—an extended scraping sound that made tears leak from her eyes without her knowing why. She concentrated on not remembering, resumed the encouragement to Jeanette Hvidt, again and again, then recited the days of the week, the months, the planets—all to divert her thoughts. Then suddenly the darkness was broken and again she saw Falkenborg, with a finishing trowel, smoothing the wet concrete over Jeanette Hvidt’s grave, so that it was level with the floor of the bunker. Other gruesome sounds and horrible images forced their way in, and she heard her screams die against the walls in a dull distortion, which better than anything else jolted her into awareness. Desperately she shook and tore at her chains, until fatigue forced her to give up and sit sobbing impotently for her parents to come and rescue her. Then the darkness once again became her friend. For a brief, clear moment she realised that time was running out, but that basically did not concern her. Then she excused herself to the woman no longer sitting by her side for her panic, and fell into a troubled sleep.

  CHAPTER 58

  The investigation had proceeded without help from Arne Pedersen for the last couple of days. He
wandered around Police Headquarters as he wished, attended the meetings he wanted to, but no one counted on him or involved him in any decisions. Reports of his incapacity had quickly spread, with the result that wherever he was, he was treated kindly and considerately, but also as if he was not really present. The first twenty-four hours after the news of Pauline Berg’s kidnapping had obviously been terrible for him and he was of no use at all in an investigative capacity. Many of his colleagues encouraged him to go home, which he steadfastly refused. He wanted to be with the others until the whole thing was over; anything else would be unbearable. As no one really had time to get involved, they left him alone and got used to him. Like a daddy long-legs, he thought with bitter irony. Like a daddy long-legs.

  To his own great surprise he had no problem sleeping. The nightmare about the witch, his mother and finally Pauline Berg, who perished in a plastic bag, was absent. Possibly because the reality was more horrific. He did not know the reason and did not care. He could sleep, for whatever reason, and that was the most important thing. All he needed to do was lie down on the floor in his office, and a few minutes later he was snoozing like a child, so it was hardly surprising that he was the most well-rested police officer in the whole complex and certainly in the Homicide Division. The thought pleased him, but he kept it to himself. He said nothing to anyone, about that or anything else. But maybe it was just by sleeping that little by little he got hold of himself.

  Konrad Simonsen noticed he was getting better. They had breakfast together. That is, at the same table in the cafeteria, not while working, not at all.

  “You look like you’re doing better, Arne.”

  The Countess added, “It’s good to see. I’m happy about that.”

  He sat and concentrated on his food. What should he say? That Simonsen himself looked like shit? That they both did? Like a pair of fools, just waiting for something terrible to happen.

  Someone had taken his car keys, and he knew why. He also knew they were keeping an eye on him. It was easy to figure out: slightly too long a look here, a glance there, and his office regularly visited by colleagues who didn’t really want anything except to see how things were going. Even when he slept, he had monitored their comings and goings. The old trick with a paper clip in the door, before he closed it completely, had exposed them. How stupid did they really think he was? He was forty-two years old and had been a police officer for almost twenty years, almost half his life. Still they treated him like a boy scout, a pure amateur. His pistol was gone, but he had no need of it, it was just a nuisance. A small penknife from his desk drawer and a police truncheon were all he needed. Idiots!

  On Thursday afternoon his wife had brought him clothes. They chatted together for fifteen minutes about the twins and, when that subject was exhausted, about the good weather. And how he was to be sure and eat properly. She kissed him, both when she arrived and when she left, a routine that was always observed, just like automatically looking to the left before you turn on to a street. When she was gone it struck him more clearly than ever how far they had drifted from each other. As if they lived in two different worlds. But he was happy about the clothes. When he was arrested, he wanted to be presentable. Well dressed, showered and shaved. He had never liked shabby prisoners; had learned to live with them, sure—because they were by far the majority—but deep down he despised them, and he did not want to be that way himself.

  The alarm from his cell phone woke him at two o’clock, and he took ten minutes to ease the soreness out of his body with small, improvised gymnastic exercises. The Japanese slept on the floor on rush mats, he had read. Hardy people, and it was undeniably practical to be able to put your bed away in a corner. Japan, Australia, China, Brazil—he had always dreamed about taking a long journey, but his life had gone in a different direction. There was always something that was more important. Through the window he stared out into the night and thought that his journey would have to wait a few more years. Then on stockinged feet he slipped out into the corridor and sneaked past Simonsen’s office. Light was seeping out from under the door. The heart of the Homicide Division the room had once been named, by whom he could not remember. Filled with contempt he mimed spitting against the closed door, after which he found the nearest bathroom and got ready.

  Months could pass without the Countess swearing, so when it finally happened, she commanded everyone’s attention at once. In this case everyone meant Simonsen and the head of DSIS. They were in Simonsen’s office, wide awake, almost speeding, reviewing tomorrow’s theatre piece, which simply must not go wrong. The head of DSIS underscored that regularly. There is no plan B, it’s this or nothing. A few times in varied form: If it doesn’t happen tomorrow, it never will—or whatever he could think of. It was almost as if he liked saying it, but it didn’t become any less true as a result. The Countess’s cell phone hummed; she looked at it and burst out in a panic, “Damn it! Arne has taken off.”

  Simonsen leaped up from his chair, which tipped over.

  “No! Where is he? How do you even know?”

  “His cell phone. I automatically get an SMS when it is more than a hundred metres away from HS. Don’t ask how.”

  The head of DSIS was calmer.

  “He’s more than a hundred metres away?”

  “Two hundred or so.”

  “Then relax. There’s plenty of time.”

  Simonsen complied. He picked up his chair and sat down, a little embarrassed by his own reaction. He said to the Countess, “Maybe he’s just getting a little fresh air. Do we even know where he’s going?”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “Is he armed?”

  “Hardly, I have his pistol.”

  Simonsen looked at the head of DSIS.

  “I assume that your people will stop him, before it goes haywire.”

  The head of DSIS confirmed that, but did not do anything. He scratched his temple with one knuckle and said quietly, “There is also another possibility.”

  The following two seconds felt very long. The Countess looked down at the floor and kept quiet. Simonsen stared at her, appalled.

  “Tell me, have you gone crazy? No, under no circumstances. Absolutely not!”

  The head of DSIS got up and left the office. Shortly after, Simonsen followed his example. The Countess watched him, her mouth set in a hard line, and thought that sometimes her boyfriend was a fool. It would have been so easy for her to have let Pedersen continue. All she’d needed to do was ignore the SMS. But the decision must be Simonsen’s and no one else’s. That’s why she had looked away. She tried to convince herself. For that reason only.

  The night porter at the hotel was a little too quick to open the door when Arne Pedersen showed him his police badge through the glass. That should have warned him. And if not that, then in any event when with virtually no explanation needed, he was given a universal access card and shown Andreas Falkenborg’s room number. The young man behind the counter pointed.

  “Number twelve, that way, third room on the left.”

  Pedersen took a deep breath before he carefully opened the door and entered the room. While his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he got his truncheon out and took the few steps through the little entryway. Carefully he felt on the wall for a switch, after which the light came on. His surprise was complete. On the bed sat two men of his own age. There was a third standing not far from him.

  “Good evening, Arne.”

  He turned towards the door by which he had just entered. The man at his side said quietly, “Spare yourself the trouble. There are two more officers outside.”

  Pedersen let go of the truncheon, which fell to the floor with a dull thud. He asked despairingly, “So what now?”

  “Nothing, except that we’re driving you back to Simon. Don’t worry, we completely understand how you feel.”

  CHAPTER 59

  The next twenty-four hours told on the employees of the Homicide Division and made them old before their time. Even
the head of DSIS, who, according to rumours in Police Headquarters, had been involved in a bit of everything in his career, adopted the same shuffling gait and anguished look as Konrad Simonsen, Poul Troulsen and Ernesto Madsen. Only the Countess got through the crisis without making a display of her desperation, which was surprising. She was the one most closely linked to Pauline Berg, if you didn’t count Arne Pedersen, who was now spending most of his time in his office, staring unproductively into space along with a young officer who had been designated to keep an eye on him. Malte Borup also felt weighed down, but was functioning more normally, especially on Friday morning when he caught the Countess at a table in the cafeteria, where she was sitting by herself having breakfast.

  “May I sit here?”

  “Of course you may. Tell me, aren’t you having anything besides Coke? You can’t live on that. What do you eat, by the way?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid.”

  “Are you short of money?”

  “No, it’s not that. I’m just not hungry.”

  The Countess buttered a roll from her own plate and pushed it over to him.

  “Eat that.”

  The student politely obeyed, eating without great appetite. Between bites he asked, “What good is a DNA test like that really? I mean, are we completely sure she’s dead?”

  “A DNA test is one hundred per cent valid, but the only thing we are somewhat sure of is that Jeanette Hvidt is dead. Her DNA was found in the lipstick he used to put a mark on his mask. We don’t know whether Pauline is alive. I thought you knew that.”

  “That’s what I understood. Do you think she is dead too?”

  “It’s impossible to guess, I don’t think anything.”

  “I think she’s alive. I firmly believe that.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I wish we could bring the murderer in and beat him until he tells us where he’s hidden her. I know we can’t, but that’s what I wish. Or maybe inject something into him to make him tell the truth.”